Ascended
by Late to the Party
Summary: Post-ToB. A recounting of a journey and the decision for the journey ahead. Written 18-02-18 (DD/MM/YY). Pre-EE.
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1.

After Irenicus, I believed it was over. We all did. Cursed as I was, I had achieved the improbable. Irenicus lay dead, Suldenessellar hailed me as a hero when really all they ever saw was an outcast. Like the wingless averiel they heaped their pitying looks upon, they viewed me as a construct of elfin flesh housing only darkness. I was the stuff of nightmares, the blood soaked so deep into my fingernails, they seeped into every dream. Talons so black they raked their very souls. My mouth was a gaping maw, my tongue spilling only lies.

Such thanks for saving their beloved city, their precious lives. The mothers seized their children, their older brothers hovering over their blades. None of them stood a chance, but that didn't stop the whispers, the hateful lies. I was worse than Irenicus; I had seduced their queen with dark sorcery. The taint whispered within me, urging me to slay them all, to suck the ichor from their flesh, to rid myself of their lying eyes.

Peace was denied me even amongst the groves.

Even my companions began to question me. They, who had suffered so much, were battle-hardened husks, scarred shells, a mimicry of their former selves. The averiel's eyes were deadened. It wasn't Spellhold that had ruined her; it was me. It was always me. This journey, this path, e'er soaked in blood, stained the very earth we walked on, slept on. Wherever I trod, death followed. It stole my companions from me. Loyal, armoured, dead inside. What little remained…

The horrors we witnessed were beyond description. The terrors of the illithid, the cruelties of the Underdark, the surface cities of men and the abominations that stalked both night and day. Men with the hearts of savages, men with the hearts of greed. Selfish ambition, desire, lust, longing for glory, power, love. Gnomes and halflings no better; elves standing apart, dwarves as bad as men. What I saw between the bright eyes of children and the tender arms of their mothers should have softened me; those same eyes held fright, their mothers' mistrust. No matter who I helped, no matter how hard I tried, it was easier for others to destroy. Easier for me to destroy. I tried reason, appealing to their better nature, to their purse, anything to keep from slaughter. Most preferred to take, then to take more. My purse, my life.

The corpses piled higher and higher. Those upholding the law were driven by ambitious, greedy lords, hungry to hang onto their thrones. Justice was perverted, corruption ruled the streets. Taxes imposed upon those who could not pay were enforced with the blade. All the while, I was hunted. Hunted by my brothers, my sisters, hunted by those who claimed to follow righteousness.

Some did help. Some offered shelter. How soon did they return to their lives, forget my kindness? Some did not forget, but those were the ones who fell prey to banditry as soon as I moved on. 'Adventurers' pillaged the tombs and ruins of former glories, facing both monster within and their fellow man.

We were hunted in every town, driven out of every shelter. Those we stayed in we were tracked to. Nowhere was safe. Nowhere held peace.

Irenicus struck from nowhere. No sooner had I fended off one assassin then another took his place, and then another. More and more came; half elves, humans, even a blue dragon. My oldest mentor was burnt alive, lightning arcing through her, spat from the wyrm's foul mouth. I returned her to my side, but part of her was lesser. Our foes rose up in the same manner, over and over. We learnt to destroy the body, to leave no trace. Every corpse we made ash and dust, and even then, their foul spirits returned to haunt our every step. Wraiths and men, monsters and demons. On and on and on.

Eventually, I prevailed. My sire's throne lay within my grasp. There was never a choice. Behind those men were gods, gods like my dead father. Gods who stood by and did nothing; gods who used their followers to strike at us again and again. To remain mortal would be suicide; without my sire's power, this divine might, I would be dead within a tenday. And so I ascended. The war was only beginning.


	2. 2

2.

A battle raged across Faerun, my battle, my war for control. I did not start the war, but there could only be one end. The other gods had to go. I could not strike directly, but I had trod the path of a mortal, walked in places both light and dark, and my followers were few. The other gods struck first. They tried to obliterate my memory, obliterate those who were faithful to me. What choice did I have? I could have reached out and touched the minds of others, but murder once again had a name, and murder always stalked the realms. My followers were few. My domain was legion. With every murder, my strength increased, my throne grew. My name replaced my sire's, and my fame spread. It was voiced in hushed whispers, in hallowed halls, in the darkest corners, in taverns and in song.

It did not take much to grant boons to the deadliest of killers. Killers to whom I appeared in their dreams. A spark, a mere spark of my power, much like my sire had done, to surrogate progeny, my proxies and a mission. A simple, final mission. Eliminate the other priesthoods. I appeared to bandits, to hired killers, to cultists, to all those who worshipped death, worshipped murder. For murder was the only way they knew, the final way to remove a foe. I gathered up the murdered, the slain, claiming them, and sending their wraiths with fury alongside my shadowed killers.

One by one the other temples fell. I initiated a godswar, a second godswar, a war between followers. Through rumour and misdirection, I had the bards play their songs, spreading blame of a plot, a plot stirring the rivalry of the gods. I disguised my followers in the vestment of my foes and murder reigned. By the time the others realised they had been duped, it was too late.

I stand alone. I reign supreme.

There is only one thing that governs the realms, and that is conflict. Conflict birthed by greed, that lust for power, for riches, for selfish and selfless reasons, and there can be one solution, one final solution. The other gods believed in 'justifiable killing', in 'justice'. I proved them wrong. When life is stolen, there is only murder.

Murder is mine, and murder's throne belongs to me.

One day, I will wipe every being, living and wraith, from this world. One day, I will show them what they worship, and on that day, murder will claim me, as it will claim them. No one can worship murder without they themselves becoming its victim.

It may sound arrogant, but as it so happens, I _am_ a god. Who else is left to pass judgement? Those petty, mewing mortals who delight in slaughtering one another, who practice foul rites and seek to rule their own lives? They chose to believe. They chose to follow. This is my final conclusion: murder is theft, and if I have stolen murder's throne and countless lives, as others attempted to steal mine from me, then I am just as guilty. My debt, their debt, hangs heavy. We each are forged by our choices, our actions, and by the choices and actions of others. A god-thief, a stealer of lives, just like my sire. I was born of murder, destined to be murdered, and now I have become murder.

I think it's time this dance stopped; don't you?


End file.
